Fluids

IT’S 1976 AND I’m a student at the San Francisco Art Institute. I’m on campus drinking beer on a Friday night at a gallery show/art opening/wine and cheese fest. I’m drunk as shit, standing around with some friends by the Moroccan-tiled koi pond full of wilted reeds and stank water in the middle of the courtyard. Across the crowd of equally inebriated students, by the open gallery door, is a girl from my figure drawing class. She’s hot, got a body like a Vargas girl. No, wait, more like an R. Crumb drawing. She’s Norwegian, six feet tall, with tits as big as my head. I’m too shy to even just say hi to her. But every time I glance in her direction I catch her eye, like she’s checking me out.

I haven’t eaten and the beer hits me pretty hard, not to mention the shots of Jack Daniel’s from earlier. Billy Bastiani and Jeff Good are on either side of me talking shit, but I’m not paying attention. Just scoping out the hot chick across the way.

“Hey, ya fuckin’ hear me? I’m talkin’ to you,” says Billy.

“Huh?” I say, and then there’s this twist in my gut and with a raging urgency the contents of my stomach comes rushing up my throat and out my mouth onto the brick paved courtyard.

This will be my first lesson in a long line of lessons involving Jack Daniel’s. I will never be able to drink Jack. Well, I can drink it, but it doesn’t stay in my body. It physically comes back up. And over the years I keep trying, but with no success. At the end of my drinking career, when even vodka isn’t working, I claim scotch as my drink of choice. But much to my dismay I was never a hardcore sourmash JD swilling kind of guy.

I quickly check to see if the hot chick saw me ralph. And of course she’s staring at me with what I think looks like revulsion in her big blue Scandinavian eyes. Embarrassed, I mumble a string of pathetic excuses and leave.

A week later I’m in my figure drawing class. As usual there’s a nude model. Only today it’s a huge hairy fat guy. The stubbly folds of his belly ripple off of him like aftershocks whenever he moves. I’m coming off a two-day heroin binge. Shooting Persian brown with drops of lemon juice. My mind’s dull and something about staring at this hairy fat guy is not working. Trying to draw his lumpy ass hurts my eyes and I start to pack up my charcoals. When I pull my Strathmore sketchpad off the easel the hot chick from the party in the courtyard is standing there.

“You leaving?” she asks.

“Just not, ah… into it,” I reply.

“Hard to look at,” she says. “Don’t want to see him either.”

We walk outside together. I turn to her; she smiles, puts her hand to my cheek, pulls me to her, and kisses my lips. She’s wearing perfume, like a ton of it. There’s a familiarity to the scent – and not a good one. I’m trying to place it when she says, “You come with me to my apartment, yes?”

Of course it’s yes. I want to fuck her. I want put my face between her boobs. I want to do all kinds of nasty shit to her body – thankfully her place is just across the street.

“I saw you,” she says as we walk outside. “At the party, I saw you.”

I’m hoping she doesn’t mean she saw me blow chunks. But just in case I play it off all casual like and say, “Yeah, I was sorta out of it that night.”

“Um… that’s alright, I like fluids,” she says, and then smiles.

“Fluids?” I ask.

“Yes, bodily fluids,” she says, kissing my cheek.

Okay, as weird as all this is I’m not really worried. So she likes fluids, whatever, as long as we have sex. And then suddenly I’m engulfed in her perfume again; assaulted by its familiarity. But before I can actually remember where I’ve previously smelled it, I push away the incoming memories and instead try hard to come up with a cool noncommittal response to her fluids comment. Only I don’t really know what she means, or worse what she wants or maybe expects me to do. I’m nineteen years old, I’ve only heard of people pissing on each other and of course there’s enemas and all, but I’ve never done anything like that. I’m a little nervous I’m going to somehow fuck this up.

“I want you inside of me,” she whispers into my ear.

“Hell yes,” I say, “I wanna be inside of you.”

“Then you fill me with your hot piss.”

“Ah, really?”

“So incredibly sexy,” she purrs.

“Isn’t that like sort of messy?” I blurt out, and then immediately regret saying it.

“I’ve plastic sheets on my bed.”

“Oh? How, ah… insightful.”

She pushes open the front door to her apartment building and grabs my hand leading the way up a flight of stairs. I’m a step behind, following her ample ass that’s stretching her short black skirt. I’m getting stiff; my eyes on her long nylon encased legs, their seamed backs ending in severe high heels that are now clacking against the marble stairs.

And then the voice in my head starts screaming: Piss inside of her while I’m hard?! Not sure I can physically do that? Sure I wake up with a hard-on and I’ve got to piss so badly, but I can’t until it comes down a little… Damn, of all the times to be outta drugs. Shit! Don’t worry. You can do this…

We walk into her bedroom, the entire room is white: walls, carpet, curtains, bed. She takes off all her clothes and lies down. I hear the crinkling of the plastic sheets as she arches her back, huge tits thrust towards me. I’m tearing off my clothes when the laces of my Converse sneaker knot up and won’t untie. Worried I’m coming off as a total bumbling buffoon I painfully wrench the shoe off my foot and flinging it across the room. With one tug on my jeans I’m finally naked and jump into bed with her.

“Inside of me… now,” she commands.

I lean down to kiss her and she stops me and instead pulls me on top of her. Slipping between her thighs, I reach up until I’ve a giant tit in each hand. Gripping my ass cheek with one hand she uses the other to pull me by my hard-on, guiding me into her. I nuzzle her neck and get another overpowering whiff of her perfume and suddenly realize where I’ve smelled it before. It’s White Shoulders. My mother wears it. An intense creep vibe rips through my psyche. A scream begins to form in my throat.

I let go of her tits.

My dick shrivels inside of her.

I piss.

About Patrick O'Neil

Patrick O'Neil is a former junkie bank robber and the author of the memoir "Gun, Needle, Spoon" (Dzanc Books, 2015), and an excerpted in part French translation titled, "Hold-Up" (13e Note Editions, Paris, France). His writing has appeared in numerous publications, countless film festivals have rejected his documentaries, and he continues to play and record music, much to the ire of his immediate neighbors. He currently lives in the heart of sleaze "Hollywood, California" and teaches at a community college to students whose main purpose in life is destroying the English language. Find more of his writing, music, and films at patrick-oneil.com.